


Max: (temp) Citadel Freelance Police

by dotYoo



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:30:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotYoo/pseuds/dotYoo
Summary: Furiosa’s taken the role of Justice when the Widows seized the Citadel, but she’s a warrior and a driver, not a detective.Luckily, she knows one who owes her a favor.[A warboy is murdered; Max is on the case.]





	Max: (temp) Citadel Freelance Police

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WastelandBaird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastelandBaird/gifts).



> WastelandBaird's request for the Mad Max Fury Road exchange 2017! 
> 
> Prompt: For untold days, Max has ran from his past, taking only a car, a jacket, and a shotgun. He though he had left it behind. When the murder of a War Boy rocks the Citadel five hundred days after the coup, Furiosa has no choice but to dredge his past up again, and get her Fool to be Officer Max Rockatansky again.
> 
> In short, Max has to be a police officer again.

A warboy sends up the cry.  His bunkmates take it up, and two minutes later the Citadel is ringing with shrieks.  It takes ten minutes for Furiosa to locate Bunkroom #24-4 as the epicenter of the racket, and another twenty to herd the excited warboys out of the room.  She slams the door shut on the the noise with a snarl and gives her deputies strict instructions not to allow anyone entrance under any circumstances. 

She turns to the bunks, looks over the crime scene, and sighs.  She’s taken the role of Justice when the Widows seized the Citadel, but she’s a _warrior_ and a _driver_ , not a detective.

Luckily, she knows one who owes her a favor.

- 

The warboy who finds Max is chattering at extremely high speeds.  He’d cut Max off as he made his way to a trading settlement that deals in automotive frame parts, and is now sitting on Max’s car hood, making huge hand gestures and is prattling on about something happening at the Citadel.

“...and he was just lying there, all red on the inside like we’re supposed to be but some people aren’t, I ain’t seen anyone lying there like that since before the Widows made things better, things were pretty bad for a long time, longer than I’ve been around that’s for sure, how long have you been around?”

Max exits his car without bothering to lock it.

 “Because if the stories are true you been around for a real long time, did you know what it was like before the war?  You can’t know that, nobody lives that long, _who killed the world_ and all that, ha hah.  That’s something they teach us in classes, which I try to go to all the time but only get to sometimes because I forget _when_ they are and _where_ they are, but I get the notes from my mates so it’s all good probably.”

He folds his arms as the warboy buzzes on.

“So anyway we all went out, all of us, to try and find you, because she needs to figure out who did it and bring them in, her name being Justice and all that, which sounds like a great idea to me since it will keep stuff like this from happening.  Dirt was my mate and stuff and I don’t like what happened--”

Max slaps the warboy upside the head to make him _stop talking_.

The warboy lurches forward hard enough that he jars out of his tirade.  “Right!  I’m supposed to tell you that Justice Furiosa wants you to come back to the Citadel to investigate a murder.”  He rubs the back of his skull and looks up at Max.  “On account of you being a detective and all.”

Max picks up the warboy by the back of his jacket, shakes him out, and sets him on his feet.

“You are a detective, right?  Like in pre-civ stories?  Like tough guys in hats and coats looking into crimes and figuring out whodunnit--”

He spins the warboy around and shoves him towards his own car.  The warboy totters off, still jabbering about something or other as he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts his engine.  Max gets into his own car and follows the warboy as they turn towards the enormous rock structure looming on the horizon.  Hopefully, the kid drives as fast as he talks and they’ll get there before morning.

-

Upon arrival, just after dawn, Max speaks briefly with Furiosa about the situation.  She sends a deputy to escort him to the crime scene.  The Citadel isn’t big enough for each person to have their own room, which means that Furiosa calling Max in to investigate a warboy murdered next to his bunk means shooing a dozen pale teenagers out of the room.  Max examines the room, but doesn’t really expect to find anything.  Between the heat of nuclear summer and the twenty-four curious warboy eyes peering through the doorway, any evidence has either been moved into cold storage or thoroughly picked over.

The room has four windows spaced evenly along the outside-facing wall, each draped with sun-bleached rags to keep the temperature down.  There are twelve bunk-beds split into two rows, one along each wall with some walking space in the middle.  Each bunk is equipped with a mattress, a thin blanket, and a crate at the bottom for personal effects.  Max wanders to a bunk with a faintly humanoid shape outlined in white on the lower bed.  According to the official report, the warboy was found on his own bunk after last meal.  One crate at the end of the bed has a pair of shoes and a ball-bearing spinner, but the other is completely empty.

Max glances over the various crates, all of which have more belongings than this one.  Separating the warboy’s things from his bunkmates’ would take more work than Max is willing to put into this case.  He decides to ignore it for now.

The body outline is draped half over the bed and half onto the floor, suggesting the warboy died on his knees and fell forward onto the mattress.  A dent in the upper bunk’s frame has a red stain flaking off the metal.  Any identifying marks left on the floor have been walked over for almost a week.  There’s some aphorism about _life moving on_ somewhere in all this.  Max isn’t willing to put the work into divining that, either.

He checks under the bed and around the frame to be thorough.  When this turns up no further evidence (surprise), he wanders back to the doorway and the deputy keeping his audience kept at bay.

Max tilts his head at the deputy.  She nods to the warboys.  The warboys surge forward in a tide of eager questions.

“Do you know who did it?”

“How did he die?”

“Is he going to Val Halla with Immortan Joe?”

“Do we get to keep his stuff?”

Several warboys thump the one asking the last question.  He whimpers and disappears into the throng.

“Boys,” the deputy reproaches, elbowing them until they clear a path.  She navigates Max through the crowd into the hallway, then heaves the heavy door shut on the questions.

Max grunts in appreciation.

“Justice Furiosa wants you to see the body next,” the deputy says.  She begins walking towards the opposite end of the hall without waiting for his response.  Max falls into step and takes an instant liking to her.

The Citadel is a massive structure that looms over the surrounding landscape.  Carved from a natural aquiferous rock formation, it easily dominates the skyline and draws attention for miles around.  The current ruling body has been working on a housing initiative for the various residents, filling the Citadel’s shadow with lean-tos and hastily constructed bedding.; the inner corridors snake through the mountain like anthill tunnels.  Max follows the deputy through rocky hallways that slope vaguely downward.  They pass mechanics, builders, and the occasional warboy.  Max considers pulling a cigarette from his bag, but, as they cross paths with a citizen muttering about _the end of the world, the end of the world,_ he ultimately decides there’s no reason to smoke around grabby hands that would already love to dig into his things and take whatever they could get between their thieving fingers.  Tobacco is a luxury out here in the wastes, and Max spent the last decade of his life trying to give people fewer reasons to single him out.  He edges around the muttering citizen and jogs to catch up with his guide.

The temperature drops as they continue past ground level.  The Citadel’s underground tunnels are used for preservation, storage, and maintaining the water pumps.  They pause so the deputy can light a torch, and Max cocks his head when he hears something he doesn’t recognize.

The deputy watches him listen.  She barks out a laugh when she figures out what he’s hearing.  “It’s dripping water,” she explains, gesturing through one of the many doorways.  Inside is the largest body of water Max has ever seen.  It’s stretches all the way across a cavern that’s at least a dozen times longer than Max is tall, and he’s certain that if he were to stand on the cavern floor, the water level would be over his head.  Huge pipes run from the ceiling into the water, drawing it up somewhere into the Citadel.

There are several cones of rock hung upside-down from the ceiling.  Max watches water collect at the tip of one, then fall into the unthinkably huge collection of water below.  It makes the firelight break across the surface in delicate concentric circles, spreading infinitely outward from the point of impact.  Some intersect with other falling droplets, some race to the walls where they dissolve into nothing.  He reaches a hand out to catch a drop as it slips off the rock.  It hits his fingers with a quiet noise, then trickles down his hand until it runs out of water, leaving a long, wet trail behind.  Max rubs the spot with his opposite hand.  Drive five minutes in any direction and someone would try to kill you for this stuff, but here there’s so much he could probably suffocate in it.

Water, Max decides, is a goddamn mystery.

The sound of footsteps makes him start.  Max startles away from the deputy and loses his footing on the slippery rock bank; she grabs his shoulder to steady him, he springs away from her a second time before he can regain his balance and skids right over the edge.  Max hits the water with a crash.  It’s shockingly cold and surprisingly heavy--

_Crashing through dimly lit corridors while dozens of painted bodies hunt him down, trying to climb the wall to the opposite side only to be grabbed and dragged down into the crushing dark.  He tries to take a breath and gets a lungful of water, he has to fight against both the arms pulling him into the dark and the weight making it impossible to move--_

Two hands grab Max by the shirt and haul him upwards.  He breaks the surface with a sputtering gasp as the deputy yanks him onto the rock ledge.  She punches his back until he heaves up the water he’s inhaled, and Max chokes and wheezes as he fights to refill his lungs with precious air.

“Alright now?”  The deputy asks.

Max wrestles his breathing into some semblance of control.  The underground cold soaks into his soaked skin and clothes, and panic is still thrumming loudly under his skin.  He takes three deep breaths in, shrugs the deputy’s hands off his shoulder, and grounds himself in the _now_.  The dripping water and crackling torch fade into the background as he listens to his own breathing.

His name is Max.  He’s in the Citadel, year post-civ 52.  He is cold because he is underground.  He’s been called by Furiosa to investigate a murder.  This is _now._

Max opens his eyes.  He makes eye contact from with the deputy from where she’s taken a step back (presumably to give Max room to collect himself) and nods.

“Alright,” she says, offering a hand to help Max up.

-

Furiosa raises an eyebrow when Max finally arrives, dripping and shivering.  “Please tell me you didn’t contaminate the water supply with _yourself_.”

“Only the agricultural pool, ma’am,” the deputy supplies.

Furiosa doesn’t unfold her arms or let up on her glare, but she does shift her weight to one leg in a way that suggests things could be worse.  “At least you didn’t fall into one of the drinking pools,” she says.

Max draws the deputy’s generously donated jacket tighter over his shoulders and flips Furiosa the bird.

She watches him in a way that, were she a lesser person, might be a substitute for rolling her eyes, but doesn’t comment further.  “If you’re ready,” she says, tilting her head towards to the door behind her, “There is a murder I’d like for you to solve.”

Max sneers, but doesn’t say anything as walks past her into the even colder morgue.

The room is set up in what he considers to be a standard morgue configuration: harsh overhead lighting on an adjustable pole , a long metal table and a smaller, more mobile tray covered in tools for autopsies, drawers carved into the rock for bodies currently under investigation.  The only unique feature is a thick metal ring jutting out of the floor in the center of the room.  It’s connected to a chain that reaches most of the area, but would stretch taught before it reached the walls.

“The Organic Mechanic works here,” Furiosa says.  Max looks up to find her watching him take in the room’s details.  “We can’t take any risks.”

“You kept him,” Max grunts.

“He’s useful,” she replies.

The overhead lights are currently focused on the table, where a human figure waits.  Max approaches to get a look.  The warboy is laid out with his arms at his side.  He seems alright from the neck down, but the cause of death is obviously due to half of his head being smashed in: his nose is crushed, his cheek has been reduced to a bloody mash, and his eye is missing all together.  Max puts a finger on an undamaged section of the warboy’s chin and applies pressure; his head shifts back.

“When did this happen?”  Max says.  His voice sounds rough, even to his own ears.

“Three days ago,” Furiosa replies, “It two days to find you, plus another for you to get back here.”

That explains why rigor mortis has already let up.  “Details?”

“Dirt, age nineteen.  Worked in the gardens under the Dag.  Found dead on his own bunk due to blunt force trauma to the head.  Suspects include everyone who sleeps in bunkroom 24-4, but I doubt those boys did it.  No motive,” she explains.

Maxs runs his eyes over the warboy’s injuries, then over the undamaged half of his face.  “Sylas Foster,” he adds.

Furiosa cocks an eyebrow.  It’s the most expressive gesture Max has seen her give since she and the former wives took over the Citadel.  “Are you making up names now?”

“No.”  Max repositions Sylas’s head so he’s laying in a straight line.  “I knew his parents in New Sydney.”

-

“You fall in my water pool?”  The Dag asks when Max comes upstairs to see her.

The gardens are located on the second-to-tallest floor.  Sunlight streams in through the uncovered holes carved in the walls onto plant-covered tables and hanging spaces.  Most are in hydroponic tanks, but some grow in the precious reclaimed soil.  A handful of warboys wearing aprons work on some of potted plants alongside the Dag.

Max shrugs and adjusts the soggy pack on his shoulder.  His clothes are still damp, but the warmth of the upper levels means he’s no longer freezing.

“Least it wasn’t one of the drinking pools,” the Dag says turns her attention back to the spiky, unwell looking shrub on the table.  “So, the kid’s name was Sylas?  I just called him Dirt ‘cause he was good at digging holes.”

Max watches her prune several branches from the thing in the pot.  He’s reluctant to call it a plant, but supposes he could be mistaken.  “Tell me about him.”

“You tell me about him first,” she replies, bringing the shrub to eye-level for a closer scrutiny.  “Furiosa says you’re the one who knew his real name.”

“His.”  Max clears his throat.  He’s said more today than he has in the last year, and his vocal chords aren’t taking it well.  “His parents were from New Sydney.  Knew them when I was a cop there.  Kidnapped during a raid.”

“Yeah, ol’ Joe used to love stealing from New Sydney.  Thought of it as squashing out remnants of the pre-civ world.  Stupid, really, it was too far away and didn’t have any value other than what _carrying his vision_ or whatever.”

Max doesn’t know what the Citadel was like before.  To be honest, he doesn’t really care.  “Tell me about Dirt.”

“Mmm, yeah.  Good kid, a little shy but that happens around his age.  Found him hiding up here one day and put him to work watering the plants and holding the baby.  Shame, really.”  The supposed plant passes some kind of muster, and the Dag carries it to a table of other supposed-plants.  She sets it between something slightly healthier and something slightly less healthy.

“Enemies?”

“None that I know of.”

“Friends?”

“His bunkmates, I think.  That and his cousin.”

“Cousin?”

“Yeah, he had a cousin visiting.  Caleb or something.  I think they said something about him staying in the area.”

She moves to one of several dozen tables covered in unruly plants.  Some are manned by one of the working warboys, but most of the work seems like it’s going to fall on the Dag.  “Now,” she says, “Unless you plan to help with weeding, get out of my garden.  Don’t come back until you figure out who killed my warboy.”

Max and his poor gardening skill sees themselves out.  He thinks this over.  Cheedo the Fragile is in charge of most non-violent and non-agricultural aspects of ruling the Citadel.  If anyone will know about Caleb-or-something Foster taking up residence, it’s her.

-

Cheedo’s office is on the floor below the gardens, next to Furiosa’s workspace and the various lookout points.  She looks up from the table she’s using as a desk when Max comes in.

“I heard you’d come for a visit,” she says, setting a stack of documents to the side.  They’re written on old blown-out tires and bits of scrap metal and old unuseable rags, anything that can be used to carry written information.

Max waits to answer until she’s finished organizing her work.  “Looking for a kid.  Last name Foster.  You have anything?”

Cheedo considers this, looking over a few documents on her desk, then fishing a few more out of a box on the floor.  “Can’t say that sounds familiar.”

“Was staying with Dirt, probably.  He’s dead now.”

“The cousin?"

“Dirt.”

“Ah.  That’s the Dag’s favorite warboy, isn’t it?  Shame.”  Cheedo sets the box back down.  It’s one of many scattered across the empty space of her office.  Max watches her nudge one slightly further behind her desk, presumably trying to move it out of view.  “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.

Cheedo isn’t the delicate wife she was when Max met her.  It’s been almost two years since Immortan Joe made his last mistake, and with no one else to perform his role in the Citadel, the ex-Wives, now known as Widows, took his place.  Max watched as Capable and Toast chose to manage vehicles and firearms, the Dag took over agriculture, and Furiosa filled the gaping void where a judicial power was needed.  That left administration and inter-settlement diplomacy.  Cheedo rose to the occasion and forced the Citadel into order under her insistent reign.  She’s been developing her abilities as she needs them, but there are only two years between her and the naive young woman she was.  Deception doesn’t seem to be something she’s had time to work on.

She’s lying.  Max tells her as much.

Cheedo raises an eyebrow in a Furiosa-like gesture, but doesn’t give in.  “What makes you say that?”

“You’re bad at it.”

She purses her lips in thought, drumming her fingers on the table as she weighs her options.  

Max waits patiently.

After a long moment, Cheedo plucks an old oil rag from the box.  “Calvin Foster,” she reads from it, “Age twenty four.  Deals in scrap.  Came to visit Dirt about a week ago.  I arranged for him to stay in bunkroom 26-1.”

Max inclines his head in thanks.  It makes his borrowed jacket squelch out a few drops of water.

“That’s a horrible waste,” Cheedo points out.

Max grumbles low in chest and stalks to the door.

-

Bunkroom 26-1 is for citizens.  Even though word of the Citadel’s new management spread to the coast within months of the Widow’s takeover, people are still too wary to approach the structure without very good cause.  Calvin, with nowhere to sleep, seems to have been given a bed alongside people who already live here.

The twenty-sixth floor is mostly quiet.  Only the non-citizens are awake during the day; anyone else who wants to survive the post-nuclear Australian heat sleeps conducts their business at night, away from the harsh light of the sun.  Some people are speaking in low tones, but most have found a place to bed down until the desert temperatures drop.  Max picks his way around sleeping bodies that line the hallway as he searches for Calvin.

Unsurprisingly, no one in bunkroom 26-1 knows of a Calvin Foster.  One of the young men trying to sneak out of the room when Max turns his back to interrogate someone else in similarly unsurprisng.  Max tails him down the hall, then spins him around and pins him to the wall before he can board the elevator.

The young man is scrappy.  He uses his pack, a ragged old oil canvas held together with pieces of rope, to try and throw Max off balance.  Max plucks the pack out of the air and tosses it down the elevator shaft.

“Hey!”  Calvin complains as Max shoves him into the wall a second time, “That’s my stuff!”

Max says nothing as the pack noisily bounces off the various rebar and girders.  It’s rope catches on a rivet and the pack splits open, sending a rain of clothing and personal effects on the mechanics working in the garage below.

Calvin’s shoulders slump as he realizes his things are probably gone.  “I was gonna sell that.”

“Shouldn’t have run,” Max points out.  “You kill your cousin?”

Calvin sizes Max up, probably trying to guess the consequences for lying.  Max waits patiently.

After several long moments, Calvin seems to deflate.  The indignance and anger seem to run right out of him.  “Yeah, but I didn’t mean to.  He just fell wrong.”

“Tell me.”

“My folks and I live out in the wastes.  I was passing by and needed a bed for the day and heard Immortan Joe kicked it, so I tried my luck here and found Sylas by accident.  He talked the lady upstairs into letting me stay.”  He looks around the mostly empty corridor.  No one is sleeping on the floor here due to heavy foot traffic from the elevator.  “This is a pretty sweet place, you know.  Good shade, plenty of water, and you only gotta beat out other people like you to find a place to set up.  No soldiers.  When Sylas found out about them, he wanted all of them to come here because it’s safer than New Sydney.  But if they found out, they’d tell their friends, and _they’d_ tell _their_ friends.  And soon everyone would know that the Citadel is just giving out free space and water.  We’d get attacked, and we’d go down.”

“So you argued.”

“He pushed me, I pushed back.”  Calvin wraps his arms around himself.  “Now he’s gone.”

Max sets Calvin back on his feet, but keeps a firm handful of his jacket.  He then pushes the button to summons the elevator.

“What’s gonna happen?”  Calvin asks.  He looks like his actions are catching up to him.  It doesn’t look pleasant.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Furiosa’s temper.  My patience.”  The elevator arrives with a ding.  Max shoves Calvin inside and taps the up arrow.  Furiosa’s office is on the top floor, next to Cheedo’s.  “Whether or not this ends with you.”

-

“Max,” Cheedo says when he comes into her office the second time in so many hours, “What brings you here?”

Max, having just dropped Calvin off with Furiosa, lets the tattered curtain blocking Cheedo’s doorway swing shut behind him.  It gives the illusion of privacy.  “Found Sylas’ cousin.”

“How did it go?”

“He had some interesting ideas about immigration.”  Max crosses his arms over his chest.  “Kid who makes a living selling scrap for water has enough time to think about inter-settlement politics?  No.”

Cheedo taps a pile of makeshift papers into order.  She doesn’t meet Max’s eyes.  “What are you suggesting?”

Max glowers at her.  “You taught him that more people meant less for him.”

To her credit, Cheedo doesn’t dispute the accusation.  “I didn’t think he’d kill anyone over it, just.  Persuade Sylas that the Citadel didn’t need a three dozen person influx. "

Max gives a heavy sigh.  “You did this.”

“ _I didn’t_ ,” she insists, “This isn’t what I wanted at all.  I just wanted to keep this place _safe._ ”  She gestures to the boxes upon boxes stacked on her floor.  “These people depend on me to keep them safe.  What do you think will happen if word gets out that we’re accepting refugees?  People will come and try to take the water from us because they’ll think we’re _weak.”_

“You convinced Calvin, a man who’s lived from one sip of water to the next, that he’d lose his place here.   _You did this._ ”

Cheedo takes a deep breath in, and lets it out slowly.  “If I did,” she says, “It was for the best.”

A light breeze ruffles Cheedo’s door curtain.  Somewhere, Max is sure Immortan Joe watches his legacy continue and laughs.

-

“This is disappointing,” Furiosa says as Max finishes delivering his report.

She folds her arms and looks into the middle distance, presumably in thought.  Max takes a drag on his long awaited cigarette.  The nicotine curls in his lungs before spreading out to the rest of his body.  He holds the smoke as long as he can, then exhales it back out.

“Calvin will be exiled from the Citadel,” Furiosa says at length, “Sylas’ family will be informed.”

“And Cheedo?”  Max asks, offering her one of his precious tobacco sticks.

Furiosa takes the offer, lighting her cigarette off Max’s ember.  “I didn’t think Cheedo was capable of something like this.  I can’t pin this one on her, I’ll have to watch her more carefully in the future.”

“She said the Citadel would look weak.  Sounded like someone else’s words,” Max comments as Furiosa takes a long pull.

“That one’s my fault,” she says, hissing smoke out in a long stream through her teeth.  “I let Corpus Colossus stay as an advisor.”

“You kept him, too?”

“He’s useful.”

They smoke for a moment of thoughtful silence.

“Citadel’s going to turn out like before,” Max says.

“The alternative is letting ourselves go soft.”  Furiosa moves her cigarette to her metal prosthetic as it begins burning towards the filter.  “She’s not entirely wrong.  We have to give a strong impression to the other settlements.  Any one of them will kill for the water you let dry on your clothes today.”

Max pushes aside the latest twinge of guilt over the water.  “This is how it starts,” he says.

Furiosa sighs heavily.  She seems to have aged five years in the 500 days since the Citadel changed hands.  “I don’t know what the alternative is.”

“There is one,” Max insists, “There has to be.”

Furiosa looks at him for a long time.  Max gets the distinct feeling he’s being sized up.  “You offering to move in as our full-time detective?”  She asks.  

Her tone suggests she’s being sarcastic.  Max doesn’t blame her, given his history with itchy feet and PTSD.  He surprises both of them by agreeing.

“...alright then,” Furiosa says.  “I’ll arrange you some quarters.”

“One condition,” Max says.  “We get this place back under control.  Didn’t take it from Joe to keep his ghost around.”

Furiosa studies him some more.  The cigarette has burned down in her hand, leaving her metal fingers smoldering.  “No, I suppose we didn’t.”  She flicks away the ash, then holds her organic hand out for a handshake.

Max takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> I subscribe to the theory that the Mad Rockatansky of Fury Road is not the same person as Mad Max from the trilogy. I submit that Max and the Lost Tribe rebuilt Sydney after the Thunderdome, and that this Max (Tom Hardy's Max) is a descendant of those children who grew up in rebuilt Sydney (New Sydney) who was named after the original Max. He went into policing like his namesake, but when he volunteered for a scouting party, got separated from the group and lost in the wastes. This then continues into the comics, then the film.
> 
> Also, in case anyone is interested, Cheedo got the idea of strengthening the Citadel fro Corpus Colossus, who is seen instructing someone out-of-frame that being seen as weak will lose them the Citadel at the end of the comics.
> 
> There was no good place to put this background in the fic or I would have. SO NOW YOU KNOW.
> 
> Thanks for reading! WastelandBaird, I hope this scratched your itch for detective Max.


End file.
